


Adam Parrish and the Genuine Sensitive

by downtownfishies



Series: TRC at Hogwarts [2]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 23:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13535283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtownfishies/pseuds/downtownfishies
Summary: The second disruption to Adam’s life came at breakfast on a Wednesday morning in late October.“Play any Quidditch, Parrish?”





	Adam Parrish and the Genuine Sensitive

**Author's Note:**

> The references to abuse are very vague but I put the tag on there just to be safe. Blame Adam's dad.

The second disruption to Adam’s life came at breakfast on a Wednesday morning in late October. He was eating alone at the Slytherin table because Gansey was off somewhere finishing his Potions homework at the last minute, and no matter what Gansey said, Adam had no intention of trying to “make friends” at the Ravenclaw table without him.

A shadow fell over his food. Adam looked up to see a tall sixth-year boy, one of the Slytherin prefects, and an equally tall girl whose name Adam couldn’t remember. Possibly it started with an S.

“Is this him?” the boy asked, but he was talking to the girl, not to Adam. Adam felt this could mean nothing good.

The girl inspected her nails, which were painted bright orange. “Yes,” she said. “That’s him.”

“Are you sure?”

“You came to me when Lochrin took ill, Rowle. Either you trust my advice, or not. That’s him.”

While Adam was trying to remember who Lochrin was or why he should care, the boy called Rowle asked him, “Parrish, right?” Adam nodded and he continued, “Play any Quidditch, Parrish?”

“Not much.” Feeling he should elaborate, but not wanting to let on how little he knew about the sport, Adam added, “I don’t have a broom.”

Rowle looked concerned at this, but the girl waved her hand dismissively. “It’s fine. He can borrow Lochrin’s.”

“How about we ask Lochrin before giving his broom away, Orla?” He turned back to Adam. “Ever play Seeker?”

“No,” Adam said truthfully. The names had just clicked in his brain. Adam paid very little attention to Quidditch, but he had heard that Lochrin, the Slytherin Seeker, had taken ill and been banned by the school matron from playing in the first match of the season. Gansey and his Ravenclaw teammates had been quite pleased by the news. For Rowle, the team captain, it was a serious problem, apparently.

“It’s easy,” said Orla, “just catch the little gold one before the other guy. Or girl.”

With a pained expression, Rowle said, “There’s a bit more to it than that. But Orla thinks you’d make a good Seeker. She, well, she saw it, or something. Interested?”

“Er,” Adam said.

“Of course he’s interested,” said Orla.

“Isn’t the match only two weeks away?” Adam asked.

“Less,” Rowle said, “but we’ve had some difficulty finding a replacement for Lochrin at the last minute.”

“And,” Orla added, “you wasted precious time not consulting me about—”

“The nebulous fog of our destinies and whatnot, yes,” Rowle interrupted her. “Look, Parrish, I know this is last minute, not to mention bizarre, so I understand if you don’t want to—”

“I’ll do it,” Adam said. Rowle looked as surprised to hear this as Adam was to have said it, but Orla just smirked.

“Excellent,” said Rowle after a moment. “We have practice tonight at seven o’clock. I’ll see about borrowing you a broom— Lochrin rides a Nimbus, a bit old, but it flies well, is that all right?”

“Sure,” said Adam, who couldn’t name more than two broomstick brands off the top of his head.

“Great.” Rowle smiled for the first time in the whole conversation. “See you tonight, Parrish. Thanks, Orla.” He walked down to the other end of the table where the older students sat. Orla lingered for a moment, eyeing Adam thoughtfully, then followed Rowle.

 

It was fortunate that Adam was in the habit of doing his homework so far in advance, because he found it very difficult to concentrate that morning.

He had done very well in his flying lessons, and had been one of the first students in the Gryffindor/Slytherin class to be released from subsequent lessons— others had been required to attend weekly until they could take off and land smoothly. Professor Chang had encouraged the four best fliers in the class (a group which included Adam, Ronan Lynch, and a girl from each House) to try out for their House Quidditch teams, but broomsticks were expensive. Adam had told himself it was a waste of time anyway, and had spent the two years since then trying his best to ignore Quidditch. This got difficult on certain weekends throughout the year, but the library was very peaceful on the Saturday afternoons when a majority of students were down at the Quidditch pitch.

But he could remember how it had felt to be on a broomstick, to fly. His pride was divided between wanting to avoid him making a fool of himself and the image of helping the Slytherin team to victory, of being liked and respected by his housemates. His inquisitive side wondered if he might be good at Quidditch… but it was another thing entirely to be told he would be by a complete stranger. What had Rowle meant when he said Orla “saw it”? What did somebody like Orla Sargent get out of recommending somebody like Adam for the Quidditch team? Was it someone’s idea of a joke? Was it Gansey’s idea of a favor?

Gansey showed up in the library where Adam was studying around half past eleven.

“You wouldn’t believe the amount of paperwork one has to go through to sign up for an international wizards’ chess tournament,” he said by way of greeting. “How was your morning?”

“I finished the Herbology reading,” Adam replied. “If you have any questions about it, let me know.”

“Haven’t read it yet,” Gansey told him cheerfully. He eyed Adam’s copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3, which lay unopened on the table. “Something wrong?”

“Did you tell Orla Sargent I want to play Quidditch?”

“I don’t know that I’ve ever spoken to Orla Sargent,” he said, although it went without saying that he knew who she was; Gansey knew most people. Then the second part of the question seemed to sink in. “You want to play Quidditch? You never said!” He sat down across the table from Adam and leaned forward eagerly. Quidditch was perhaps his favorite non-Glendower topic. “There’s a lot of casual games on the weekends, if no one’s booked the pitch for practice, and I bet you could borrow a broom. What does Orla Sargent have to do with this, though?”

Adam told him about the conversation at breakfast. Unsurprisingly, Gansey had an explanation.

“She must have seen you playing Quidditch in the future! Orla’s a _genuine sensitive_ , whatever that means. She tells people’s fortunes— she’s got flyers up all over the school, even in Ravenclaw common room although I don’t know how she got it in there. And her mother teaches Divination in fourth year, so I guess the gift is hereditary.”

“If she can see the future, but I only join the team because she had a vision of it, isn’t that a paradox?”

“You know, I think it is. Interesting…” Gansey dug around in his bag and pulled out a heavy leather notebook. He thumbed through it until he found the section he was looking for, then scribbled a quick note. _Ethical implications of fortune-telling - paradoxes_ , Adam read upside-down. Gansey gazed at the notebook for a moment, then looked up. “So _are_ you going to join the team?”

“I told Rowle I’d try. I’ve never played before, though. I doubt I’ll be much good.”

“Well, it’s not something you can become expert at in… what, eleven days? But you can learn the basics, play this match, and then maybe they’ll put you on the reserve squad until Lochrin graduates. Anyway, I heard you did all right in your flying lessons.”

“I did, but that was two years ago. And where did you hear that?”

“Oh… you know, now that you mention it, I don’t seem to remember…” Quickly, he added, “It hardly matters, because Slytherin’s offense won’t be a match for Ravenclaw come January.”

Adam raised his eyebrows. Gansey grinned. “Do you know the rules?”

“As I understand it, the Seeker catches the little gold one, the rest fly about scoring goals and trying to knock each other senseless.”

Gansey bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.” He got up and wandered off in the direction of the Magical Games and Sports section.

Adam watched him go, then forced himself to turn to his spellbook. When Gansey went wandering loose in the library he could be gone until the lunch bell, even if he had set off with a particular book in mind. In the meantime Adam could study some incantations for Friday’s Charms quiz.

He had finished studying and become engrossed reading the book’s appendix on Latin roots when he heard whispered voices. He looked up quickly.

Gansey was back, and Ronan Lynch was with him. As they drew closer, Adam could hear that Gansey was talking about historic Quidditch tournaments: “…and then in 1878 they played the tournament again, and that time the final lasted nearly fourteen hours… ah, Parrish. Here you are,” he said, holding out a green, leather-bound library book. The title, _Quidditch Through the Ages_ , was imprinted in gold lettering on the cover.

“Thanks,” Adam said, taking it.

“I think there’s a newer edition, but the library here hasn’t got it yet. And look who I found,” Gansey added cheerfully as he packed his notebook back into his bookbag. “You know Ronan’s on the Gryffindor team?”

“Yes,” Adam said. He glanced at Lynch. Lynch met his gaze for a moment, his eyes hard, then looked away at nothing in particular. An uncomfortable silence followed. Gansey generally acted as if he didn’t notice how rarely the two living members of the History Club spoke to each other, and seemed to pretend that they were all good friends. The reality was that Adam got on best with Ronan Lynch when Lynch spent club meetings sleeping on top of the desks or bewitching Gansey’s textbooks to fly. When Lynch actually participated, he demonstrated himself to be clever, crude, and adept at finding new ways to insult Adam. Sometimes he used Latin.

They didn’t often run into each other outside of Tuesday nights. Last night, Gansey had brought up the subject of Marcher Lords, and Lynch’s swearword-infused response to one of Adam’s ideas had led to Gansey exclaiming “ _Ronan_ ,” in such a scandalized tone that it had almost been funny.

That moment must have been on Gansey’s mind as well, because after watching the two of them for a moment he said cautiously, “Is everything all right?”

Lynch rolled his eyes. “Parrish is just surprised to see me with a book,” he said, indicating his own library book, which was very large and looked very old.

The lunch bell rang. “Good luck next Saturday, Parrish,” Lynch said, turning to go. “We’ll see if you know the front end of a broom from the back.” He gave Gansey a vague wave and walked off.

Gansey sighed. He opened his mouth to say what was almost certainly another apology about Ronan, but Adam cut him off.

“It’s fine,” he said.

Gansey sighed again. “Let me know what you think of that, will you? Maybe we’ll talk Quidditch history next Tuesday.”

 

Adam ate quickly that night and went down to the Quidditch pitch directly after dinner. As he left, Gansey flashed him an encouraging smile that only felt the slightest bit patronizing. He’d spent most of the meal talking about the impact of the International Statute of Secrecy on the spread of Quidditch worldwide while Adam had been shoveling down potatoes.

He was the first one there but as it grew close to seven o’clock he could see a handful of wand-lights crossing the grounds toward where he stood awkwardly waiting at the entrance to the locker rooms.

At the head of the group was Rowle, who was carrying two broomsticks under his arm, followed closely by a boy built like a gorilla, who was complaining loudly that it was too dark to play.

“I’ve been trying to schedule more time on the weekends, Dagworth,” said Rowle, “but Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff have got Sundays booked solid, and there was something of an uproar when I suggested practicing on Saturday afternoon.”

“Saturday’s a Hogsmeade visit,” argued a blond girl who carried a small wooden bat that made her look as menacing as she was pretty.

“Priorities, Culpeper,” said Rowle. “Or do you want to lose as badly to Gryffindor as we did last year? Evening, Parrish,” he greeted Adam, stowing his wand in his robes and holding out one of the brooms. Adam took it.

“Theo Carruthers was asking me this afternoon just how desperate we were, that we went to a psychic for help recruiting,” commented a girl named Fiona from Adam’s own year. “No offense, Parrish.”

“Carruthers knows he’s never got a goal past you,” Rowle replied. “It makes him feel small inside.” The team laughed. “Culpeper, go see what you can do about a light on the field. Everyone else, locker room. We need to talk strategy.”

The team filed into the locker room, and one of the boys lit the oil lamps inside with a small fire spell. Adam wondered, not for the first time, if there might be a way to make electricity work at Hogwarts. He’d read that the magical energies of the location made it too unreliable, but if anyone could work around that, certain things— like evening Quidditch practice— would get a lot easier.

“All right, for starters, introductions,” Rowle said. He gestured to Adam. “This is Adam Parrish, who will hopefully be our new Seeker. Parrish, I assume you know our Keeper, Fiona Selwyn, already; Macmillan, Lynch, and I are Chasers, and Dagworth is a Beater along with Culpeper who you saw outside. As you can see we have a bit of a shortage of reserve players, which is why you’re here. Now, even if we get some light out on the field there’s not much we can do tonight, but I’ve booked us a practice on Saturday at 7 a.m.—”

“In the _morning_?” demanded Macmillan, and others grumbled as well.

“That’s what ‘a.m.’ generally means,” said Fiona.

“I know it’s not ideal,” Rowle said, “but Ravenclaw—”

“—isn’t even playing until the end of next month,” complained Declan Lynch. “Maybe someone could have a word with them? Parrish, you know Richard Gansey, right? Think you could ask him to reel in his teammates a bit?”

Declan Lynch was not his brother, it only took one glance to see that, but _not being Ronan Lynch_ was not, in and of itself, a reason to like someone. Declan Lynch looked like what Adam had thought Gansey was, before he had got to know him properly.

Adam realized that he was staring, and that no one else was talking because they were waiting on him to answer Declan. It hadn’t occurred to Adam that Declan had meant his question seriously.

“Have you ever spoken to Gansey about Quidditch?” he asked, and apparently some people on the team had, because Fiona snorted and Dagworth laughed out loud.

“So we’re practicing on Saturday,” Rowle said firmly, “and I expect everyone to be there, because that’s going to be our one chance to go over defense formations with Parrish before the match. Speaking of,” he added, as Culpeper stepped into the locker room carrying a large wooden chest, “do you know much about Quidditch strategy, Parrish?”

“A bit,” Adam replied. He had spent every spare minute that afternoon reading _Quidditch Through the Ages_ , but most of what he’d read so far had been about the history of the sport, not about how to actually play it.

In the pause that followed his words, he thought he could hear Fiona roll her eyes.

“Well, why don’t we stay here and talk about it a bit, then, and the rest of you can go outside. Just passes and goals,” he said to Culpeper. “Chang says if we lose another bludger at night she’ll ban evening practices, apparently they keep smashing up the greenhouses…”

Culpeper responded with an ironic salute and herded the other four players out of the room, closing the door behind her.

As Rowle talked, Adam quickly realized that he was just as intense about Quidditch as Gansey, possibly even more so. Adam suspected he could have talked for hours about all the different scenarios they could expect in the coming match. After a while, Rowle glanced at his watch.

“Okay,” he said finally, “basically what you’ve got to understand is, the Seeker can more or less function independently of the rest of the team, but your actions affect the game so significantly, the opposing team isn’t just going to leave you alone. The Beaters will target you, so you need to be as good at dodging as you are at, well, Seeking. That’s what we’ll focus on next time. Tonight, let’s just see how you fly.”

Adam hoped he hadn’t winced too noticeably at those words. “What exactly did Orla Sargent say? About me playing Quidditch?”

Rowle paused at the door and looked back at Adam over his shoulder. “She said we’d win. That’s all I really need to know.”

Adam did not find that particularly comforting, but he followed Rowle outside.

The near half of the field was lit by half a dozen globes of magical light which floated high above even the tallest of the goal hoops. They weren’t as bright as electric stadium lights, so the pitch was gloomy and gray-blue and shadowy, but he could see well enough to follow the red ball— the Quaffle— as Lynch threw it towards a goal post and Fiona caught it, turned swiftly in a circle, and hurled the ball back to the Chasers. Adam suddenly wanted very much to try flying again, but wished there were about six fewer people here to watch him do it.

“About time,” Culpepper shouted, touching down in front of Adam and Rowle. “Light spells are finicky, they don’t last forever.” As if to demonstrate her point, the globes flickered ominously. There was a yell above them as two of the boys crashed into each other in the darkness.

Culpepper took off and flew up to check on them. Rowle followed her, and caught the Quaffle from Macmillan as he rose.

“Come _on_ , Parrish,” someone called. He thought it was Fiona. He allowed himself another moment’s hesitation, then mounted Lochrin’s broom and kicked off from the ground.

He rose level with the team without any trouble, a feat which surprised no one as much as him, because he had neglected to mention how long it had been since he’d last attempted this. He hovered, unsure what to do next.

Rowle flew toward the goal posts, feinted left, and threw the Quaffle through the center hoop, as Fiona raced to catch it and just barely missed. Then he flew back to Adam and began circling him.

“Good form,” he commented, “a bit shaky, I don’t suppose you’ve had much practice since first year? But it looks like you know what you’re doing, thank Merlin, I was beginning to believe all the people we tried to recruit who said the position was cursed—”

“Don’t tell him that,” Macmillan said, “you’ll scare him off!”

Another awkward silence fell.

Fiona broke it this time. “Hey Parrish,” she shouted, “catch!”

She threw the Quaffle in his general direction, but well to the left of where the players were actually flying. It soared through the air and began to drop with no one there to catch it. Acting without overanalyzing for the first time all night, Adam sped after it. He reached out an arm and grabbed it before it hit the ground, and was so surprised by his success that he didn’t pull out of the dive fast enough. He felt his feet skid on the ground and jumped off the broom, rolling across the grass with the Quaffle clutched to his chest.

He was sitting up and taking stock of the scrapes on his arms and face when the team reached him, their facial expressions ranging from Culpeper’s indifference to Fiona’s curiosity to Rowle’s concern. Nervously Adam watched them, sure that this blunder had shown how inexperienced he was at Quidditch.

“Nice catch, Parrish,” Fiona said, offering her hand to help him up. Once he was sure he hadn’t injured anything critically, he pushed himself to his feet.

 

As he left the dormitory the next morning, Kavinsky remarked, “Nice face.”

“Thanks,” Adam said pleasantly, because he knew by now that any other response to Kavinsky only made things worse.

He had politely refused to be escorted to the hospital wing the night before; the scrapes on his face and the bruise on his arm were hardly the worst he’d ever experienced. They were healing just fine, but Gansey still fussed when Adam saw him in class. While they waited for the professor to arrive, Adam told him how it had happened, enjoying the novelty of being able to explain an injury to someone honestly. Because it was History of Magic, Ronan was there as well, and he laughed uproariously until Malory came in and docked five points from Gryffindor. Ronan seemed quite unconcerned by this, or by the glares of his housemates— it was Gansey’s stern look that actually shut him up.

Gansey spent the next two days talking of nothing but Quidditch, including a detailed analysis of the respective strengths of the Slytherin and Gryffindor teams.

“Diggle’s a fair Seeker,” he explained Thursday night after dinner, while his chess club compatriots waited impatiently for him by the stairs in the entrance hall, “but her real advantage is going to be her broom. I hear she’s got the new-model Firebolt, a class above Lochrin’s Nimbus 2010, but naturally who’s on the broom makes as much difference as what model it is. As far as defense is concerned— yes, all right, I’m coming. Good night, Parrish!” Then he dashed up the stairs to his weekly chess club meeting.

“As I was saying,” he said the next morning at breakfast, as if it had been a few minutes and not thirteen hours, “I won’t deny your defense benefited immensely last year when Fiona Selwyn joined the team, but Gryffindor’s strength is in their Chaser lineup, has been for years, whereas your team—”

“I’m sorry, Gansey, I couldn’t help but overhear,” someone called to them. Adam hadn’t realized that Macmillan and Dagworth, two of his new teammates, were sitting only a few feet down the table. It was Macmillan who had spoken, and he continued, “I’m sure you’re not calling the Gryffindor offense _strong_?”

“I’m more interested in how he was going to finish that last sentence,” Dagworth growled.

“I’m just offering Parrish here some advice, going into his first Quidditch match,” Gansey said pleasantly.

Macmillan scoffed. “What business is it of yours? We all know you’ll be chanting _Gryffindor_ come next Saturday.”

Adam had been carefully avoiding the question of which team Gansey would be supporting. Rationally he knew it didn’t matter, but he found that he was very curious to hear how Gansey responded, though he hoped it didn’t show.

“I plan on remaining impartial next weekend, as I couldn’t possibly choose between two teams on which my friends will be playing. Or two teams who are both going to lose to Ravenclaw before the end of the year.”

The two Slytherin boys took this about as well as Adam expected them to, which was not well at all, and he was wondering if being involved in a _disruption_ in the Great Hall would be a monthly occurrence this year, when Declan Lynch arrived.

Inserting himself in the open seat between Dagworth and Gansey, Lynch smiled in a way that encouraged them all to smile with him, although only Gansey did. “Everyone all right?” he asked. To Dagworth and Macmillan, “You lads finished eating? Professor Dittley wants to get an early start this morning, we’re down by the Forest today. You go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”

Once Macmillan and Dagworth had departed— although not without a final, nasty look at Gansey, who ignored them— Lynch turned to Gansey. “You might consider sitting at your own table. Not that we don’t enjoy your company, but it would be better to avoid any unpleasantness.” With a vaguely friendly nod at Adam, he stood up and followed his year-mates out of the Great Hall.

Gansey rolled his eyes and bit into a slice of liberally-buttered toast.

“You don’t think he has a point?” Adam asked quietly.  
Swallowing, Gansey replied, “No. There’s no rule saying we can’t sit where we please.”

There wasn’t, except for at formal feasts, and at most mealtimes students mixed freely with those of other Houses. The exception was, as in most things, Slytherin, who kept to themselves and just barely tolerated outsiders.

“We could always sit at the Ravenclaw table,” Gansey added.

“Somehow I don’t think that’s going to make me any more popular here.”

“You don’t need to be popular with _them_.”

“No, why on earth would I want to avoid antagonizing the people I live with? Besides, some of them are all right.”

Gansey raised his eyebrows.

“I said some, not all.” Steeling himself to say something that had been on his mind for a while, he added, “The way some people in the other Houses act, it’s like every Slytherin personally murdered a member of their families in the War.” Adam’s grasp on recent Wizarding history— that is, anything this side of the fifteenth century— was fuzzy, but Gansey was good about mistakes, he didn’t outwardly judge.

“No, it’s not that,” Gansey protested, “it’s just… bad blood.”

“Blood? No kidding.”

 

At practice on Saturday morning the grass was wet with dew and the eastern sky had just barely started to glow with the impending sunrise when Adam followed his teammates onto the field after a lengthy talk from Rowle. Adam was to practice catching Golden Snitch while the two Beaters took turns defending him from the other’s attacks. Rowle left the other Chasers to practice with Fiona on one end of the field while he timed Adam’s Seeking attempts.

Culpeper, a sixth-year who was the team’s vice captain, was on defense first. “Don’t mind me,” she told Adam, confidently mounting her broom. “Focus on the Snitch, I’ll take care of the rest.”

Once they were actually in the air, this was easier said than done. The first time he heard the _crack_ of Culpepper’s bat against the bludger, he flinched and lost sight of the Snitch. Struggling to ignore the whistling of the ball as it hurtled through the air between the Beaters, he spotted the Snitch near the goalposts and flew toward it. When was still a couple feet away, Culpeper surged forward to protect him on the left and Adam was forced to swerve to avoid a collision. The Snitch was gone when he got back on course, and he was rattled that he hadn’t spotted the bludger in his peripheral vision.

He circled their half of the pitch, trying to get his breathing under control, trying to focus on his own task, trying and failing to fully trust Culpeper to do hers. Finally he caught a glimpse of gold near the ground, in the shadows cast by the stands and the rising sun. He dove for it, making sure not to go as fast as he had during the previous practice. He reached out and, to his astonishment, closed his fingers around the cold metal of the little ball. He braked the instant before he ran into the stands, and only barely grazed the wall.

“Four minutes, forty-six seconds,” Rowle told Adam when he, Dagworth, and Culpeper landed beside him. Adam nodded. Considering how long Quidditch matches could last, that wasn’t bad, but it would be much harder with fourteen players on the field.

“You’ve got to—” he began, then turned towards the far end of the field and bellowed, “ _you lot are not so good that you can afford to be watching us! Mind your own damn business!_ Anyway,” he continued, as the other two Chasers hurriedly returned to their drills, “Parrish, you can’t just let the Beaters do all the work for you. You’d have had it a lot sooner if Culpeper’s block hadn’t caught you unawares that time.”

Adam glanced at Culpeper, who’d given him the opposite advice. She stuck to it. “He’s not going to become an expert by next Saturday, Rowle. He’s better off if he can ignore the bludgers and leave them to us--”

“Yes, because it’s so easy to ignore globs of metal being chucked at your head,” said Rowle. “Culpeper, you’re on offense. Dagworth, keep Parrish alive. Parrish, the more you know about what’s in the air around you, the easier it is to plot a course to your destination.” Adam released the Snitch, and the three mounted their brooms again.

Adam had been a little nervous to have Dagworth guarding him; he had not forgotten the incident with Gansey on Friday. But whatever Dagworth’s issues with Gansey were, they did not seem to extend to Adam. He fought off Culpeper’s bludgers just as determinedly as she’d fought off his. Adam tried to follow Rowle’s advice. He was not used to activities like this— not just the physical exertion, but being so _present_. Quidditch required him to exist here and now— something, he realized, he almost never did. He spent most of his time submerged in magical theory for his coursework, or analyzing social probabilities to avoid unpleasant interactions. Over the last two days, between library books and Gansey’s lectures, he’d learned plenty of the theory of Quidditch— broom speeds and team records and ball trajectories— but here, in the air, he had to observe and respond to the real world as fast as he could think.

Good thing he could think fast.

He was breathing heavily when he landed after catching the Snitch a second time. “Four minutes, four seconds,” Rowle told him, then sent him to the sidelines to rest on the bench and catch his breath.

Adam caught the Snitch three more times that morning, and got his time under three minutes, before Rowle gave in to the demands of his team and let them leave to get ready for the Hogsmeade visit.

Fiona paused on the way out of the locker room to ask, “Parrish, are you going to the village today?”

Adam shook his head. “Homework,” he lied. Over the summer he had briefly toyed with the idea of asking his mother to sign the form, but he hadn’t wanted to risk his father finding out. Weekend visits to a Wizarding village weren’t exactly a productive use of his time, after all. Anyway, there was little appeal to going shopping by yourself when you didn’t have any spending money.

Fiona rolled her eyes. “You work too hard,” she said, but she didn’t try to argue.

Adam and Rowle were the last to leave the locker room. As Rowle was closing up behind them, he commented, “You know the worst a bludger can do to you is break a bone, right? And there’s spells for that.” He eyed Adam anxiously. Clearly he’d decided that in addition to being skittish, Adam was inexperienced and uninformed about both Quidditch and the Wizarding world. Adam knew he wasn’t wrong, but it still stung.

“The skull is a bone,” Adam replied drily.

“Yes, but Quidditch players don’t aim for the head. They’re trying to stop you, not kill you.”

“Even Ronan Lynch?”

Rowle hesitated. Adam saw it, and he knew that Rowle knew that he saw it. Rowle sighed and gazed up at the still-brightening sky before finally saying, “Ronan Lynch is a punk, but he’s not the sort to go around hexing first-years for the hell of it, you know what I mean? Not like some people I could name, but won’t, because you didn’t hear me say any of that. What I _am_ saying is, take the bludgers seriously, they could take you out of the game, but it’s not the end of the world if you get hit. Do like you did on Wednesday. Walk it off.”

They had reached the entrance hall. “Now if you don’t mind, I have someplace to be, and I hear you have homework.” He gave Adam what was apparently meant to be a reassuring smile, and headed towards the dungeons.

 

Adam spent the weekend getting ahead on his homework, free from distractions as Gansey spent Saturday in Hogsmeade with his other friends and Sunday practicing on the Quidditch pitch. It rained, heavily and unexpectedly, on Sunday afternoon, and Adam had to work very hard not to laugh when Gansey arrived at dinner exhausted and drenched to the skin. (Dagworth and Macmillan were not so reserved, but Gansey seemed determined not to pick another quarrel, and only mentioned Quidditch statistics when Adam was the only Slytherin within earshot.)

The handful of classes Adam had with the Gryffindors during the next couple days were unpleasant. In Divination on Monday, they were practicing cartomancy. Adam had memorized the meanings of the individual cards but was having trouble understanding how the combinations worked; meanwhile the Gryffindor boy he’d been paired with that day predicted, loudly and confidently, that the cards were telling Adam not to try anything new that week. Adam made sure to walk slowly to History of Magic on Tuesday, having grown tired of hearing about Deirdre Diggle’s broom specs the day before. Tuesday afternoon’s Care of Magical Creatures class was not particularly labor-intensive, as they were all sitting around outside the gamekeeper’s hut, drawing and labeling sketches of unicorns. Adam was sitting several feet away from the unicorns themselves, like the rest of the boys in the class. Instinctively avoiding his housemates, he wound up within earshot of the Gryffindors, half of whom were Quidditch players, and all of whom were laughing uproariously at Theo Carruthers’ account of last year’s Gryffindor-Slytherin match— the one where Ronan Lynch had broken his brother’s arm.

Lynch himself was intent on his smudgy, ill-proportioned unicorn sketch, but he smirked when Carruthers got to his part of the story.

“It was _beautiful_ ,” he was saying. “Poor old Declan had to sit out the rest of the match, they brought out some pathetic reservist for the last ten minutes before Deirdre caught the Snitch. Do you suppose Slytherin ever recruits players who actually know what they’re doing? I mean, can you imagine if they were actually any good? I can’t.” He glanced meaningfully at Adam as he said this.

“If Slytherin were actually good, it’d be a lot less embarrassing how few goals you scored against us last year.” The Gryffindor boys looked up at Fiona, who had walked over to glare at them, hands on her hips. Two of her friends had followed her, looking like they would have preferred not to. The boys shifted uncomfortably, and after a moment with no response, Fiona rolled her eyes and dropped down onto the grass beside Adam. The other two girls sat beside her, and the three of them immediately fell back into what they must have been discussing before they moved, the current lineup of Wizarding Wireless Network programs. Adam didn’t own a radio, so he focused on drawing. The girls’ conversation formed a convenient barrier between him and the Gryffindors.

After class, as the Slytherins and Gryffindors crossed the grounds back to the castle, Fiona caught up with him.

“I hope you’re not letting them get to you. It’s just talk, and talk like that is traditional.”

Adam knew this; he’d heard the banter last year. He just wasn’t sure how he felt about being the subject or the object of that talk, and he worried he didn’t have the grounds to retort like Fiona did, having never played in a match himself.

“I can handle a little unpleasantness,” he told her.

 

She was not the only one to offer him unsolicited advice. On his way to the History Club meeting that night, he ran into Declan Lynch.

“Hullo, Parrish,” Lynch said. “Off to Gansey’s History Club?”

“Yes,” replied Adam.

“Well, listen, if my brother tries to give you any trouble, just ignore him. He’s like a kid looking for attention, and it’d do him some good not to get it for once.”

Adam thought it was a bit much for Declan, who was only a year older than Ronan, to say his brother was childish. He also did not care for the implication that he had ever done anything to provoke Ronan Lynch, but he thanked Declan for the advice anyway and headed upstairs.

This week, Gansey had brought several world maps; he spread them across desks and held them down with map weights shaped like toads. Each map was stamped PROPERTY OF HOGWARTS SCHOOL LIBRARY and some were so old they were fraying at the edges. Adam leaned over one to get a better look. Ronan prodded one of the toads with his wand.

“If that thing hops away, you’re the one who gets to explain it to Malory,” Gansey said warningly, and Ronan stopped.

Ronan was restless all evening; Adam guessed it was because of the upcoming match. He levitated Gansey’s pen case, sending it racing between desks and around Adam’s feet, threatening to trip him. Gansey endeavored to ignore this, explaining to Adam about the ley line that ran near Hogwarts, but Ronan got bored of the pen case and moved onto inkwells, accidentally shattering one and nearly spattering ink all over Adam’s shoes.

“Merlin’s beard, Ronan, was that really necessary?”

“‘Merlin’s beard’,” Ronan mocked. “You sound older than Malory.”

Gansey rolled his eyes, then waved his wand at the mess of ink. “Scourgify!” The ink mostly vanished, leaving all but a few smudges and the shards of the broken bottle. Adam was impressed.

“What’s the matter, Parrish, never seen a cleaning spell before?”

“How about instead of being rude to Adam, you clean up the rest of this?”

“But you’re so much better at it.”

Gansey just looked at him until, cowed, Ronan walked over and tapped the broken glass, muttering, “Reparo.” He handed the repaired bottle back to Gansey.

“I think we’re all pretty tired,” Gansey said, returning the empty bottle to his bag. “Why don’t we call it a night?”

Ronan looked about as sheepish as it was possible for someone like Ronan to look as he headed for the central staircase. Even though that staircase would get him to the dungeons more quickly, Adam walked with Gansey to the west staircase, for obvious reasons.

“Sorry about him,” Gansey said, not for the first time.

“It’s fine,” Adam replied, probably not for the last time. “Does he listen to anyone besides you?”

“His dad,” Gansey answered immediately. “And McGonagall, and Sargent, usually. Professor Sargent, I mean. Her daughter mostly just avoids him. Sensible girl.” Gansey nodded approvingly.

Adam knew the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had a daughter at the school, but he couldn’t put a face to the name. Adam almost asked why Gansey didn’t just avoid Ronan, but it was probably none of his business. They had reached the stairs, anyway.

“He gets weird like this when his dad’s traveling,” Gansey remarked, “and the energy before a big match just feeds into it.”

“Also,” Adam said, “he hates Slytherins.”

Gansey winced but didn’t dispute that. “He should be back to normal soon.”

“Is it normal Ronan or weird Ronan who breaks people’s arms with bludgers?”

Gansey sighed. “See you tomorrow, Parrish.”

 

The following night was the Slytherin team’s final practice before the match. Rowle had tried to schedule another evening practice earlier in the week, but on the nights when no one had Astronomy class, some of the older students had advanced Potions lessons.   
Once again lit by Culpeper’s eerie glowing orbs, Rowle had Adam drilling dives and fast turns while the Chasers practiced combination passes.

“Carruthers is gonna wipe the floor with you!” Culpeper howled at them every time one of them dropped the ball. She and Dagworth were tasked with trying to intercept the Quaffle from the Chasers, which they were doing far too easily.

“Carruthers’ mother was a hippogriff,” Macmillan announced, hurling the ball towards the goal, where Fiona caught it easily. She made as if she were going to pass it to Lynch, but instead threw it in Adam’s general direction. He dove for it and brought it back to Rowle.

“The real thing’s a lot faster than that,” Dagworth quipped.

“Thank you,” Adam said blandly, “I’ll try to remember that.” The team laughed. Somehow, lately they laughed more _with_ Adam than _at_ him.

Slytherin House on the whole seemed to think their Quidditch team was a bit of a joke. According to Fiona, they hadn’t won the Cup in years, so most members of the House figured it was better not to take it too seriously.

The players themselves took the game very seriously (as evidenced by their venomous glares at Gansey every time he sat at their table that week) but out of earshot from them, Slytherin students could be heard grumbling about Rowle’s recruiting decisions.

Adam was the usual target of this, but he overheard one of Kavinsky’s gang claiming Culpeper was ill-suited as a Beater— “A pixie like her can hardly even lift the bat.” Adam imagined reporting what he’d heard to Culpeper herself; he enjoyed picturing her socking Prokopenko on the jaw.

In the grand tradition of the Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry, two students were sent to the hospital wing after hexing each other in the corridor on Thursday. It seemed that despite having no faith in the team’s ability to win, Slytherins still had their pride, and would resort to turning people’s eyebrows into centipedes in order to defend it. Gansey sighed self-righteously as he and Adam watched Professor Sargent hand out detentions left and right on the way to afternoon classes.

Adam hadn’t seen Ronan except from a distance since Tuesday, and was keen to keep it that way. To that end, he once again wound up in a group of girls during Care of Magical Creatures, this time a mix of Gryffindors and Slytherins, who were surprisingly civil to each other.

“Blue, are you playing on Saturday?” Fiona asked.

This was addressed to the girl with the heavily embroidered schoolbag. Over the past few weeks her embroidery had spread to the hems of her robe. Looking up from the bowtruckle she was supposed to be feeding, the girl called Blue answered, “Not unless Theo Carruthers falls down a flight of stairs.”

“That could be arranged,” said one of Fiona’s friends darkly.

“I can’t support violence,” Blue said, “but if something terrible happens to him before the weekend, I promise not to rat you out.”

All three girls nodded solemnly, then started giggling. Adam found girls somewhat confusing.

 

When Adam came down to breakfast on Saturday morning, most of the team was already there. Rowle was pushing eggs back and forth across his plate, looking anxious, but when he saw Adam, he brightened.

“Parrish, good, you’re here. I want to talk to you about the weather conditions today.”

Was this a test? “The sky’s clear,” Adam replied. “Good visibility, unless the sun gets in your eyes.”

“Oh, I’m glad to hear you’ve got a sense of the basics.” Well, of course he did, Gansey had been telling Adam the relative merits of each day’s weather for Quidditch play every day for nearly two weeks now. “But listen, you should also think about wind speed…” And he launched into one of his lectures. From down the table, Dagworth shot Adam a pitying look.

As students trickled into the great hall, Adam saw quite a few red-and-gold Gryffindor scarves and pennants, even among the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. He didn’t see Gansey at all.

Orla appeared at their table shortly before it was time to head down to the pitch. She had a number of green and silver ribbons tied into her hair, and had painted her fingernails to match.

“I’ve come to wish you all good luck,” she announced, “although I assure you, you won’t need it.” She inclined her head towards Adam. This did nothing to help his suspicions that his decision to get involved here was a terrible mistake.

“Thank you, Orla,” Rowle said, “we’d better get going.” As they left the great hall, Adam was sure he heard one of the team members mutter, “ _She had better be right about this._ ”

According to the rules (and Gansey’s endless statistics) it wasn’t impossible to win if the Seeker failed to catch the Snitch, it was just very, very unlikely. The team was counting on him. His housemates, for all their derision, were, too. And Adam himself had hopes riding on this— if he could be good at Quidditch, one of the pillars of Wizarding culture, people would take him more seriously. Not just as a star student, or as Richard Gansey’s friend, but as _Adam Parrish, wizard_.

He might just get knocked off his broom and make a fool of himself. That was always a possibility.

Rowle gave a pep talk in the locker room which included a lot of the things he’d been saying to Adam all week, like the stuff about wind speed, and several of the team’s favored insults against specific members of the Gryffindor team. Macmillan reminded Declan not to let his brother break his arm again. Fiona checked her watch.

“It’s time.”

They walked out to meet Gryffindor at the center of the pitch, lining up by position— Adam at one end, Fiona at the other. Dierdre Diggle was opposite him, a girl with brown hair in a long braid, grinning and standing a head shorter than anyone else on her team. Professor Chang, the referee, walked between the two lines carrying a large wooden trunk. She caught Adam’s eye and, to his surprise, smiled encouragingly. She must have remembered him from flying lessons two years ago.

“Captains, shake hands!” she called, and Rowle stepped forward and shook hands with one of the Gryffindor chasers. Singh, Adam thought, remembering Gansey’s efforts to teach him every House team’s lineup. Walker, Lynch, Reeve, Carruthers, Hollyhill, Singh, Diggle. Most of them were older than Adam; 5th, 6th, and 7th years. “Mount your brooms!” Rowle and Singh stepped back into line with their teams and mounted up. “On my mark…”

Kick off on the first whistle, the balls are released on the second. As fourteen brooms rose into the air, Adam became aware that there was a running commentary echoing through the stands.

“And there goes the Snitch! Two very different Seekers in this match, with veteran sixth-year Dierdre Diggle up against an unknown element, third-year Adam Parrish. Parrish is a stand-in, or rather, a _fly-in_ for Slytherin’s usual Seeker Lochrin, who’s been plagued by bad luck ever since that highly amusing incident in the match against Ravenclaw last January— you all remember that to which I refer—” Adam gritted his teeth and shot after Diggle, having recognized the voice of Gansey’s friend, Henry Cheng. What on earth qualified him as a Quidditch announcer, Adam wondered, but then, Adam had no room to talk, most people in this stadium were more qualified than he was to be playing.

“Rumors fly around young Parrish. Some say he’s Slytherin’s secret weapon, while others claim he had never even _played Quidditch_ until a week ago, so— oh, what’s that? Gryffindor score!”

Adam did his best to tune out Henry Cheng, but it was impossible to ignore the roar of the red-and-gold section of the crowd each time the Quaffle got past Fiona. Gryffindor was twenty, thirty, forty points up. Rowle fumbled a pass. Professor Chang called a timeout to berate Macmillan and Hollyhill for “accidentally” flying straight into each other when neither had the Quaffle.

Something whizzed past Adam’s left ear. He flinched instinctively, then registered that it had been a gold something. He turned his broom around and caught sight of it again. Diggle was nowhere in sight. Adam sped after it, reaching out a hand as he closed in.

_The majority of injuries sustained by seekers occur during attempted and even successful snitch captures. Throughout the rest of the match the seeker is on the lookout for the snitch and therefore aware of their surroundings; it is in the moment of intense focus when he or she is most vulnerable._

There was the moment when Adam believed he was about to catch the Snitch, and then the Snitch was nowhere in sight and Adam was flying with one hand on the broom and the other tucked close to his chest. There was a moment in between that probably wasn’t worth thinking about. He could see Rowle signaling him to land and shook his head, he could still play. Rowle called for a time out.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"It's not even broken. The bludger just grazed it."

"Are you sure?"

"Is there actually an alternative to me being fine right now? Assuming you want to keep playing?"

"Let me see it."

Adam was pretty sure he was better qualified than Rowle to judge the condition of his own body, but he held out his arm rather than argue.

"I can play," he said again.

With obvious reluctance, Rowle told Professor Chang they were ready to resume the match. Once they were back in the air and he was sure Rowle wasn’t looking, Adam flexed his fingers into a fist, wincing. He rolled his wrist, reassuring himself that nothing was broken. He would have another nasty bruise, that was all. It was just his wrist, not his eyes, his fingers, or his broom— this wasn’t going to stop him from playing. _Ronan Lynch_ wasn’t going to stop him.

(He hadn’t actually seen if it was Lynch who’d sent the bludger, but it was a guess with a fifty-fifty chance of being right.)

After that, Diggle had a close call with the Snitch, but lost it when it flew in among the Chasers as they tussled for the ball. The Snitch flew past Adam again too, but on his right side, and he reached too quickly with his injured arm and had to let it go without giving chase. Meanwhile, the score had shifted in Slytherin’s favor.

"And with another goal from the elder Lynch, Slytherin pull ahead! It's been some time since the other side put one through, not for lack of trying on their part, but good luck getting past Fiona Selwyn when she’s in her element!"

As he circled around the pitch, Adam watched one of Fiona’s saves, in which she caught the Quaffle, turned, and immediately passed it to Rowle before the Gryffindor Chasers even realized what had happened. Adam was startled by a pang of envy, wondering how long she’d trained on broomsticks to be so at ease in the air. Two years ago, Chang had praised Adam as having a knack for flying, but once in a while, it still made his head spin, literally and figuratively. Would he ever truly belong in a place like this?

“It seems Slytherin have finally _got their heads in the game_ — Muggleborns in the crowd, you know what I’m talking about— no sign of the Snitch for some time but, look at that, some excellent pass work between Lynch and Rowle, a valiant dive by Walker, but there goes the Quaffle! Slytherin lead by ninety! Carruthers has possession, pass to Singh, to Hollyhill, back to Carruthers, another direct approach which Miss Selwyn blocks, easily, far be it for me to tell anyone how to do their job but doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results is— yes, sorry, Professor. That’s Macmillan with the Quaffle, a fourth year, just promoted from the reserves this season, Reeve takes a swipe at him with the bludger but he dodges, with that kind of agility he could be a Seeker, what _are_ the Seekers doing, I wonder? Flying around in circles, it seems. Does it always take this long? Yes, I’ve seen a Quidditch match before, Gansey Three, don’t look at me like that. Slytherin score!”

Was _that_ where Gansey was? Adam wasn’t even sure where in the stands Cheng was commentating from.

It was a long time before he or Diggle saw the Snitch again, and when Adam saw the other Seeker go into a dive, he was sure it was over. He flew after her all the same, but she had a head start, not to mention the superior broomstick. Then at the last second, she braked, and Adam had to swerve to avoid a collision. He spotted a flash of gold, but lost track of it as he regained his bearings.

Diggle flew away, her braid flapping in the wind behind her, and Adam stared after her uncomprehendingly. She could have ended the game just then, but instead she just… stopped him from catching it.

Somewhere above him, Henry Cheng seemed much as perplexed. “Was that a feint? She did actually see the Snitch, didn’t she? What’s that? Oh, I see. Friends, if you’re as confused as I am as to what just happened, allow me to enlighten you— since that last goal by Slytherin, the score has been 240 points to 90, with Slytherin in the lead—”

Adam suddenly understood. He gazed up to where Diggle was slowly circling the pitch. _She doesn’t want to end the game now. If she catches the Snitch now, it’s a tie, and they want to win outright._ He resumed his patrol with renewed determination. He couldn’t outrun her on this broom, and his right arm hurt like hell, but if he found the Snitch first, none of that would matter.

She blocked him another time before Gryffindor scored again, but Macmillan returned the point almost immediately, bringing them back to their stalemate.

“And Diggle dives again! Is Parrish even going to bother following? Yes, there he goes, but the Nimbus 2010 is never going to overtake a Firebolt Crimson, or so it has been explained to me. Even dodging that Bludger— nice try, Culpeper— she’s a length ahead of Parrish and— oh! Declan Lynch scores! Wait, what? What do you mean, it’s over?”

It was over. Dierdre Diggle tumbled off her broom and landed flat on her rear, holding the Snitch high above her head.

“We have confirmation from Professor C that the Quaffle went in _before_ the Snitch was caught, therefore the goal counts. The final score is 260 to 250. Slytherin wins—” If Cheng said anything else it was cut off by the roar of the crowd. Adam landed beside Diggle and offered a hand to help her to her feet.

“Thanks,” she said. “I really thought… the captain signaled to me, we figured a tie was better than… oh well! Good match!” She held her hand out again to shake. He took it. Apparently her cheery demeanor held even when she lost.

Adam returned to the locker room, uncertain what sort of reaction to expect from the rest of the team. But they were all in a celebratory mood, only paying much attention to Adam to check on his arm. Declan in particular asked him if he was quite sure it wasn’t broken, and confirmed Adam’s suspicions that the bludger had been Ronan’s.

“Quit fussing over him,” Rowle told them, “I’ll take him to the hospital wing.”

Feeling that this also fell under the definition of _fussing_ , Adam began, “You really don’t need to—”

“I can take him.” Orla leaned on the door frame at the entrance to the locker room, twirling a lock of silver-ribboned hair around one finger.

“What the hell are you doing here, Sargent?” Culpeper demanded.

“I came to congratulate you all on your win.”

“You mean the win that your predictions had nothing to do with?” Dagworth asked. “No offense,” he added to Adam.

“I said you’d win with Parrish on your team, and…” She spread her arms dramatically. “ _Ta-da._ ”

“That is such bullshit,” said Culpeper, “and you know it.”

Orla rolled her eyes.

“Okay, that’s enough. Parrish, go with Orla.”

Adam didn’t want to go to the hospital wing, but he found he wanted even less to be in the locker room with the team he’d failed to help. He followed Orla.

Most of the crowd from the match had already returned to the castle, to Adam’s relief. A few stragglers were still milling about in the entrance hall, and Adam felt their eyes on him. Professor Damaris was passing and complimented Adam’s flying and reminded Orla she had an essay due on Monday, but for the most part they managed to avoid running into other people. When they reached the entrance to the hospital wing on the first floor, however, Adam heard someone calling his name.

“Parrish!” Adam turned to see Gansey running up the stairs he’d just climbed, Henry Cheng following close behind. “Sorry I missed you this morning— I was up early in the library and completely lost track of time, I’m headed back there now, actually, I just wanted to say, you flew brilliantly.”

“I didn’t get the Snitch,” Adam said.

“Still, up against an experienced Seeker like Diggle, I think you did really well. How’s your arm?”

“It’s fine, just a bit bruised. Rowle’s still making me see the matron, though.”

“Better safe than sorry, right? I’ll let you go, but if you have some time later, come up to the library, would you? I want to show you this book I found.”

“Ooh,” Orla exclaimed sarcastically, “is it _rare and ancient_?”

“Er, yes, it is? Later, Parrish.”

“Bye.”

As Gansey and Cheng walked away, Adam could hear Cheng saying, “Do you think anyone could tell I didn’t have a clue what I was talking about?”

Orla pushed open the door to the hospital wing. “After you.”

“Um,” Adam said, hesitating before he entered.

She let the door swing closed in front of them. “What?”

“When you predicted we’d win, did you know it would be without me catching the Snitch?”

“What difference does it make?”

“The team… they pulled it together after I got hit. Was that my job? For them to feel bad for me?”

Orla sighed. “It doesn’t work like that. _Why_ doesn’t come into it for me. Parrish plays, Slytherin wins, that’s what I told Rowle. Well, first I told him his team didn’t need a Seeker, it needed an actual offensive strategy, but what do I know about Quidditch? Anyway,” she added, opening the door again, “this is a good path for you. Destiny, and whatnot.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you messing with me?”

She smirked. “Maybe.”

“They’re not going to want me to play after this.”

“Not this year, but people graduate. Other people improve, if they borrow a broomstick from their filthy-rich little friends and practice on the weekends from now on.”

“Is that your advice as a psychic, or as a Quidditch fan?”

Her response was cut off by someone shouting from inside the room, “In or out, Orla!”

Orla gestured exasperatedly for Adam to go through the door.

On the other side he found himself face to face with Orla’s much smaller cousin, Blue. (So it was more like face to top-of-head.)

“What are you doing here, pipsqueak?” Orla asked.

“Running errands for mum, what does it look like I’m doing?” She carried a pile of books, with several jars and vials balanced on the top. “What are you doing here?”

“My selfless deed of the day. Bye, Parrish,” Orla said. The door between them closed with a loud thud.

“Do you need help with that?” Adam asked Blue.

Blue was eyeing Adam’s right arm. “Thanks, but not from you, no offense. I saw the match, that hit looked nasty.”

“It wasn’t nearly as bad as it looked.”

“Well, look who’s a tough guy. It was some scheme of Orla’s, then? You playing in the match, I mean?”

“Pretty much.”

“Figures. Well, for what it’s worth, Fiona Selwyn thinks you’ve got real potential.” From the way she said it, it sounded like it was worth something to her, at least.

“Do you play?”

“Reserve Chaser. I played against Hufflepuff last year, but only ‘cause Carruthers was out sick. Think you’ll stick with it?”

“Maybe.”

“Good luck. I’d better get going.” Before he could offer to help carry something again, she shouted over her shoulder, “ _Madam Pomfrey! There’s a patient here to see you!_ ”

She ducked around him and pushed the door open with her back, slipping out into the corridor as the matron came out of her office, _tsk_ ing young ladies who felt the need to shout in a hospital ward.

Adam had never been in the hospital wing before, and he was struck by how much it looked like an ordinary hospital, just a couple decades out of date. Still, that made it far more modern than most of the rest of Hogwarts.

Madam Pomfrey spotted Adam. “Been playing Quidditch, have you? What have you done to yourself?”

He rolled up his sleeve and held out his arm, showing her the purplish bruise that spread over his wrist.

“Bludger?” She _tsk_ ed again and walked over to his right side to get a better look. As she gently took his arm, he pushed down the instinct to jerk away. “Nothing’s broken, at least.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell people.”

“I’ll give you something to bring down the swelling, but you’d best take it easy for a couple of days. It may be difficult to write with that hand. I can write a note for your teachers.”

“Thank you, but I can write with my left hand.”

“Well, if you’re sure. Wait here.” She went through a door labeled _store room_ and came back with a small green jar. “Arm.” The salve from the jar was cold on his skin and smelled of herbs he couldn’t quite identify. “I’ve not seen you in here before. What was your name, again?”

“Adam Parrish.”

“Well, Mr. Parrish, the best advice I have for you is to find a new hobby. I don’t suppose you have any intention of doing so?”

“Not really,” he said. Today’s game hadn’t been all he’d hoped, but he realized he wasn’t quite done with Quidditch yet.

The matron sighed. “It was worth a try. Take care, Mr. Parrish, I hope I don’t see you again anytime soon.”

As he left the hospital wing, Adam wondered if he ought to go find Gansey in the library. He was curious about whatever Gansey had found, but not so much that he wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon in the company of Henry Cheng.

“Parrish. Hey, Parrish!”

Adam whirled around to see Ronan Lynch slouching beside the entrance to the hospital wing. What was he doing here? Had he been waiting for Adam? The other boy’s eyes were casting around the corridor, lighting on anything that wasn’t Adam.

Ronan said, “How’s your arm?” He directed this question at a painting of a seascape to Adam’s left.

“It’s fine,” Adam replied automatically. Another awkward pause stretched between them. Ronan didn’t want to look at Adam but Adam looked at Ronan. He studied the sharp lines of his face, trying to understand what Gansey could see in him.

Abruptly Ronan met Adam’s gaze with an intensity that might have made him step back, but Adam had decided weeks ago that he would not be afraid of Ronan Lynch.

“Sorry,” Ronan said, and right away Adam understood. Gansey must have told him to come.

“Like I said, it’s fine. It’s all part of the game, right?” He blinked but refused to be the one to look away first.

“Yeah, but, like—” He looked down. “It’s one thing to break Declan’s arm, he’s my brother, he’s been flying a broomstick since he could walk. Someone who’s never played before is… different. So. Apology.”

“I didn’t ask for anyone to go easy on me.”

“Jesus, Parrish, that’s not what I— for the love of— shit.”

“For the love of shit?” Adam couldn’t help echoing. Ronan stared, like it was taking him a while to process that Adam had made a joke.

“I’m trying to say I’m glad I didn’t break your arm, okay? Anyway. Have you seen Gansey?”

“Isn’t he still in the library?”

“The library? What, did he just go straight there from the match?”

“Didn’t you see him?”

“Haven’t seen him all day. I had this thing going on this morning, maybe you heard…”

“Ha ha. He’s in the library with Henry Cheng.”

“Maybe I’ll go jump in the lake instead,” Ronan said, but he headed for the staircase to the second floor. He paused and looked back at Adam. “Did you like it?”

“What?”

“Quidditch.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“Cool.” He turned and practically ran up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

That wasn't the day Adam became friends with Ronan Lynch, but Adam tended to look back on that day as the moment he realized Ronan Lynch didn't actually despise him.

**Author's Note:**

> Index of Useful Information  
> Slytherin Quidditch Team  
> -Rowle, 6th year, Chaser (Captain). Quidditch nut of the Oliver Wood variety.  
> -Lochrin, 7th year, Seeker. Sir Not Appearing In This Film.  
> -Culpeper, 6th year, Beater. So maybe I started borrowing characters from Stiefvater’s other novels to pad the cast of this one…?  
> -Dagworth, 4th year, Beater. Looks like he could kill you, actually at least 60% cinnamon roll.  
> -Lynch, Declan, 4th year, Chaser. I don’t need to explain Declan, right?  
> -Macmillan, 4th year, Chaser. Probably a nephew or a second cousin of Harry Potter’s contemporary Ernie.  
> -Selwyn, Fiona, 3rd year, Keeper. Tall.  
> Gryffindor Quidditch Team  
> -Singh, 7th year, Chaser (Captain). Likes cats.  
> -Diggle, Dierdre, 6th year, Seeker. Literal ray of sunshine.  
> -Reeve, 6th year, Beater. Wears glasses.  
> -Hollyhill, 5th year, Chaser. Speaks German.  
> -Walker, 5th year, Keeper. Best subject is Potions.  
> -Carruthers, Theodore, 3rd year, Chaser. Approval rating hovers in the low 30s.  
> -Lynch, Ronan, 3rd year, Beater. What crush on the rival team’s reserve Seeker what are you tALKing about????  
> Other people  
> -Orla Sargent, 7th year Slytherin  
> -Henry Cheng, 3rd year Ravenclaw  
> -Madam Pomfrey, still baffled as to why so many students enjoy causing themselves grievous injury in the name of sport  
> -Jesse Dittley, who teaches some Care of Magical Creatures lessons and some Herbology lessons  
> -Cho Chang, in charge of flying lessons, refereeing Quidditch, and occasionally teaching Charms classes
> 
> Discussion questions  
> 1\. What’s going on with the doors to the hospital wing? Do they swing both ways? Is this a metaphor? Discuss.  
> 2\. One wonders, where did Gansey hear about Adam’s performance in Flying Lessons?


End file.
